UNIVERSITY    OF    ILLINOIS    BULLETIN 

Issued  Weekly 
Vol.  XIX  November  14,  1921  No.  11 

(Entered  as  second-class  matter  December  ii,  1912,  at  the  post  office  at  Urbana,  Illinois, 
under  the  Act  of  August  24,  19 12  Acceptance  for  mailing  at  the  special  rate  of  postage 
provided  for  in  section   1103,  Act  of  October   3,    1917,  authorized  July  31,    1918.) 


ARMISTICE  DAY 
ADDRESS 


delivered  at  the 


ARMISTICE  DAY  CONVOCATION 

OF    THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS 


NOVEMBER  11,  1921 


MAJOR  GENERAL  MILTON  J.  FOREMAN 

PAST  GRAND  COMMANDER 

OF     THE 

AMERICAN   LEGION 


PUBLISHED     BY     THE     UNIVERSITY     OF     ILLINOIS 
URBANA 


c 
OIo«6ocjttt0«  Program 

The  President  of  the    University  Presiding 


Prelude 

DIRECTOR  FREDERIC  B.  STIVEN 

Religious  Exercises 

THE  REVEREND  EDWARD  S.  BOYER 

Chaplain  of  the  American  Legion 

"America" 

SUNG  BY  THE  AUDIENCE 


Address 


MAJOR  GENERAL  MILTON  J.  FOREMAN 

Past  Grand  Commander  of  the  American  Legion 


(( 


The  Star  Spangled  Banner" 

SUNG  BY  THE  AUDIENCE 


The  Benediction 

THE  REVEREND  EDWARD  S.  BOYER 


ARMISTICE  DAY  ADDRESS 

Major  General  Milton  J.  Foreman 

It  Is  impossible  to  address  an  audience  composed  so  largely  of 
young  men  and  women  on  the  anniversary  of  Armistice  Day  without 
reflecting  on  the  meaning  of  that  day  to  the  young  men  and  women 
of  America.  When  silence  fell  at  eleven  o'clock  on  November  11, 
1918,  after  more  than  four  interminable  years  of  the  unbelievable 
noise  of  war,  those  of  us  elders  who  listened  in  that  instant  of  heal- 
ing peace,  thought  first  of  all:     "This  saves  our  young  men." 

We  had  lived  through  many  years.  We  had  had  our  opportu- 
nities and  to  such  extent  as  we  could,  had  taken  advantage  of  them. 
Nothing  had  interfered  with  the  progress  of  our  development  except 
our  own  mistakes  and  incapacities.  Such  rights  as  life  offers  had 
been  ours — life,  liberty,  and  the  pursuit  of  happiness  in  our  own  way. 
But  before  millions  of  our  American  young  men  the  war  had  stepped 
with  a  forbidding  gesture.  To  millions  of  our  young  men  war  had 
denied  those  rights.    It  had  said: 

"For  you  there  remains  only  one  motto — duty.  You  may  not 
go  your  own  ways.  You  may  not  choose  your  own  lives.  For  you 
there  can  be,  for  a  time,  no  liberty.  For  liberty  you  must  substitute 
discipline.  For  the  pursuit  of  happiness  you  must  substitute  disci- 
pline. And  as  for  life,  you  must  disregard  it.  Your  lives  are  no 
longer  yours;  they  belong  to  your  country.  Not  on  yourselves  as 
individuals  depends  your  progress,  but  on  the  mighty  fortunes  of 
war." 

For,  as  you  all  know,  this  war  like  most  wars  was  fought  by  the 
young  men.  At  thirty  a  man  Is  usually  still  at  the  beginning  of  his 
career.  His  formal  education  Is  complete,  of  course,  but  his  experi- 
ence of  life  has  hardly  begun.  In  the  next  thirty  years  he  expects 
really  to  do  his  work  in  the  world.  But  in  war,  for  every  man  of 
thirty  there  are  thousands  under  that  age.  Indeed,  for  every  man  of 
thirty  there  are  hundreds  who  have  not  yet  reached  twenty.  Boys 
are  the  raw  material  ground  up  In  that  deadly  mill. 

And  so  when  war  ceased,  when  the  forbidding  gesture  was 
withdrawn,  when  Armistice  Day  proclaimed  the  end  of  fighting  and 
the  success  of  our  great  cause,  we  older  men,  as  I  said,  saw  in  it,  first 
of  all,  the  salvation  of  our  young  men.  Now  again  they  might  do  as 
we  had  been  privileged  to  do — live  their  own  lives,  reflect  upon  their 
own  problems,  envisage  their  own  opportunities,  assume  responsi- 
bility for  their  own  problems.  That  was  the  first  thought  that  came 
to  me,  as  I  stood  on  the  banks  of  the  Meuse  on  that  long  expected 
day:     "Thank  God,  our  young  men  are  saved  for  us." 

Perhaps  not  at  once,  but  very  soon,  the  belief  sprang  up  in  our 
hearts  that  the  armistice  represented  not  so  much  the  triumph  of 
the  Allied  Armies  over  the  Germans  as  the  wider  triumph  of  good 


things  In  general  over  evil  things  in  general.  We  believed  that  it  had 
brought,  not  for  the  moment  only  but  for  the  long  future,  good 
tidings  of  great  joy  to  all  the  world.  We  knew  that  it  announced 
the  end  of  the  most  murderous  struggle  the  world  has  ever  seen  but 
we  expected  more.  We  expected  it  to  be  the  beginning  of  a  day  of 
new  hope  for  every  country.  From  the  war  which  it  closed  we  ex- 
pected to  learn  certain  lessons  of  high  value.  You  all  remember 
how  innumerably  that  phrase  was  repeated — "the  lessons  of  the 
war."    What  were  they? 

In  the  first  place,  there  must  be  no  more  wars.  This  was  to 
have  been  "the  war  to  end  war." 

In  the  second  place,  we  were  taught  the  possibilities  of  interna- 
tional cooperation.  As  the  Allies  had  united  in  the  conflict,  so  they 
would  unite  after  it.  Contest  would  be  succeeded  by  covenants  and 
peace  on  earth  accompanied  by  good  will  among  all  men. 

In  the  third  place,  we  were  shown  the  folly  of  kings  and  the 
strength  of  organized  democracies.  It  was  the  Emperor  of  Germany 
and  the  coterie  about  him,  stupid,  pigheaded,  callous,  and  greedy, 
who  had  plunged  the  world  into  the  whirlpool;  it  was  the  nations 
essentially  democratic  in  government — France,  England,  and  the 
United  States — that  had  finally  extricated  it  from  destruction.  By 
the  armistice,  tyranny  was  doomed  forever  and  democracy  forever 
saved.    So  we  believed  and  so  we  preached. 

Well,  in  three  years  how  far  have  we  learned  those  lessons? 
What,  compared  with  our  hopes,  have  been  the  actual  developments 
since  November  11,  1918? 

There  has  not  been  in  Europe  since  that  time  one  single  day 
when  armed  forces  have  not  been  either  in  conflict  or  preparing  for 
conflict.  Russia,  Poland,  Greece,  Turkey,  and  Spain  have  been 
almost  steadily  engaged.  Many  more  lives  have  been  lost  on  the 
battlefields  of  Europe  since  November,  1918,  than  the  United  States 
lost  in  the  world  war  conflict  during  the  nineteen  months  of  our  par- 
ticipation. Only  on  the  seas  has  peace  continued.  But  we  know 
that  Japan's  navy  is  increasing  steadily  and  it  is  not  unnatural,  con- 
sidering her  inaccessibility  and  the  certainty  that  no  nation  will  at- 
tack her,  to  wonder  why,  unless  she  intends  some  day  to  make  her- 
self the  aggressor  in  a  war. 

Reading  history  now,  we  can  see  what  we  did  not  see  clearly 
before  the  smoke  had  fairly  cleared  away  in  1918 — that  war  has  been 
the  normal,  peace  the  abnormal  state  of  the  world.  I  take  no  stock 
in  the  doctrine  sometimes  advanced  that  war  is  a  desirable  thing 
because  it  develops  the  virtues  of  courage  and  decision  and  hardens 
the  fibre  of  a  nation  that  tends  to  grow  soft  in  time  of  peace.  Our 
individual  lives  call  on  us  so  constantly  for  courage  and  decision, 
whether  our  country  happens  to  be  at  war  or  not,  that  our  good 


fibres  never  soften.  A  man  who  makes  a  success  of  farming  or 
engineering  or  medicine  or  teaching  or  the  law  or  banking  or  manu- 
facturing is  constantly  called  on  for  courage  and  decision;  and  though 
we  had  been  for  years  at  peace  when  we  entered  the  great  war  in 
April,  1917,  no  one  who  witnessed  a  single  engagement,  a  single  skir- 
mish in  which  our  young  men  engaged  in  1917  or  1918  could  doubt 
for  a  moment  the  quality  of  their  courage  or  the  vigor  of  their  de- 
cision. If  anything,  they  were  too  courageous — they  bordered  on 
the  reckless;  too  decisive — they  verged  wholly  on  the  impulsive. 
Yet  these  qualities  had  resulted  wholly  from  the  experience  of  peace. 

No,  peace  is  wholly  desirable;  war  is  wholly  undesirable  from 
every  point  of  view.  But  desirable  or  undesirable,  how  are  we 
going  to  keep  out  of  it.^  By  a  blind  belief  that  if  we  do  not  approve 
of  it  we  may  avoid  it.^  By  a  trust  that  the  horrors  of  the  last  great 
conflict  were  so  apparent  that  no  nation  is  ever  going  to  risk  them 
another  time.^ 

We  stand  today,  economically  speaking,  the  strongest  nation 
in  the  world.  We  are  so  outstandingly  the  creditor  nation  that  the 
world's  business  can  hardly  adjust  itself  to  the  situation.  What 
does  it  mean  that  the  pound  sterling,  the  franc,  the  lira,  the  crown, 
the  Japanese  yen,  the  German  mark,  all  are  below  par  value?  Simply 
that  everybody  except  ourselves  owes  more  than  he  can  pay.  More- 
over, In  resources  we  excite  world  envy.  Iron,  coal,  oil,  wheat,  cot- 
ton,— every  staple,  every  basic  raw  material,  we  possess  and  can 
produce  In  quantities  that  no  other  single  nation  can  hope  to  rival. 

Do  the  other  nations  love  us  for  this  reason?  About  as  much 
as  the  average  mine  worker  loves  the  mine  owner;  about  as  much 
as  the  average  farmer  loves  the  man  who  holds  a  chattel  mortgage 
on  his  cattle  and  his  machinery.  Do  they  believe  in  our  Idealism? 
About  as  much  as  they  did  before  the  war;  about  as  much  as  we 
believe  in  theirs;  about  as  much  as  England  does  In  Ireland's,  or 
as  the  Irish  believe  In  the  Idealism  of  England. 

They  know  that  we  are  not  a  militaristic  nation.  They  know 
that  we  are  not  aggressive,  that  we  have  never  yet  struck  unless  we 
have  been  struck  first;  therefore  they  are  confident  they  need  not 
be  fearful  of  our  arms.  But  of  our  trade,  of  our  resources,  of  the 
possibilities  of  our  development,  they  are  fearful.  In  that  respect, 
we  are  rapidly  finding  ourselves  forced  into  the  position,  In  their 
regard,  which  was  formerly  held  by  Germany. 

We  say  with  perfect  honesty  that  all  we  desire  Is  liberty  to  de- 
velop as  we  choose.  But  in  the  assertion  of  that  liberty  it  Is  certain 
we  do  annoy.  In  protecting  the  development  of  our  agriculture  in 
California,  we  annoy  Japan.  In  asserting  our  rights  over  the  Pan- 
ama Canal,  we  annoy  England.  In  refusing  to  entangle  ourselves 
In  the  confusion  of  Central  Europe,  we  annoy  France  and  Italy. 


In  insisting  upon  the  payment  of  debts  due  us,  we  annoy  Europe 
from  end  to  end.  And  if  they  do  not  love  us,  and  do  not  fear  us, 
and  we  continue  to  irritate  their  pride,  is  our  position  wholly  safe? 
As  a  producing  and  trading  nation,  it  is  unassailable;  as  a  nation 
open  to  military  or  naval  attack,  is  it  obviously  so? 

I  repeat  that  the  great  war  emphatically  did  not  end  war;  that 
our  outstanding  eminence  as  a  business  nation  does  not  shield  us 
from  war,  but  rather  invites  it;  that  our  consciousness  that  we  shall 
never  indulge  in  military  or  naval  aggression  is  no  protection  at  all 
but,  if  anything,  the  reverse.  We  require  a  protective  force  in  re- 
serve as  surely  as  a  rich  house  requires  watchmen,  or  a  great  treas- 
ure requires  bolts   and  bars. 

A  convention  of  great  nations  assembles  in  Washington  today 
to  discuss  the  possibilities  of  the  limitation  of  armaments.  No  man 
can  hate  war  more  than  I  do,  or  be  more  in  sympathy  with  the 
ideals  and  hopes  of  the  President  of  the  United  States  when  he 
called  that  assemblage  together,  but  let  us  be  sure  when  we  discuss 
armament  that  we  know  what  we  mean;  that  if  we  should  agree  on 
limitation,  we  know  what  we  are  agreeing  on  and  what  we  expect 
the  limitation  to  do  for  us. 

France  at  this  moment  has  a  standing  army  of  800,000  men 
and  a  system  of  conscription  which  includes  practically  every  able- 
bodied  young  man  in  the  mother  country  itself,  and  in  all  its 
colonies.  Even  Madagascar,  for  instance,  is  strictly  conscripted, 
although  the  inhabitants  of  that  island  have  no  representation  of 
any  kind  in  the  French  Parliament. 

The  United  States,  on  the  other  hand,  has  a  standing  army  of 
only  158,000,  although  our  population  is  three  times  that  of  France. 
Our  National  Guard  though  authorized  up  to  216,000  men  has  only 
121,000  actually  enrolled;  and  the  moment  the  war  was  over  we 
dismissed  conscription  as,  apparently,  a  total  impossibility. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  naval  fighting  tonnage  of  France  is 
scarcely  a  fifth  of  our  own.  Should,  therefore,  our  navy  be  cut  down 
by  four-fifths  to  equalize  that  of  France  or  should  the  army  of 
France  be  cut  down  to  some  fifty  thousand  to  equalize  our  own? 
If  neither  of  these  highly  unlikely  events  takes  place,  may  we  ex- 
pect to  find  some  standard  adopted  which  will  establish  a  mathe- 
matical ratio  between  land  forces  and  sea  forces,  in  accordance 
with  which  both  France  and  the  United  States  can  proceed  to  limit 
their  armaments? 

These  suggestions  have  only  to  be  put  forth  to  show  the  ab- 
surdity of  endeavoring  to  limit  armaments  on  any  calculated  ratio. 
The  absurdity  becomes  all  the  more  striking  when  we  reflect,  more- 
over, that  no  nation  stands  in  relation  to  only  one  of  the  others.  It 
is  concerned  with  all.    The  Japanese  navy  is  some  five-twelfths  the 


size  of  our  own.  The  Japanese  army,  including  all  men  trained 
and  immediately  available  for  modern  warfare,  is  some  five  or  six 
times  as  large  as  our  own  army.  The  English  army  is  conducted 
on  the  same  principles  as  our  own  and  is  of  approximately  the  same 
size.  The  English  navy  is  about  one-third  larger  than  our  navy. 
Therefore,  any  "limitation"  which  related  to  France  and  ourselves 
would  not  fit  England  and  ourselves,  and  any  which  fitted  England 
would  not  fit  ourselves  and  Japan. 

Why  have  we  a  large  navy?  For  two  reasons.  We  have  a  long 
coastline  to  protect,  and  we  have,  much  against  our  will  but  inevi- 
tably, become  entangled  in  foreign  affairs.  We  protest,  for  example, 
against  Japan's  policy  in  China.  We  insist  on  the  necessity  of  hav- 
ing some  control  over  such  distant  centers  of  communication  as  the 
island  of  Yap.  We  demand,  or  at  any  rate  we  refuse  to  forgive, 
the  payment  of  some  eleven  billion  dollars  owed  to  our  government 
by  foreign  governments.  As  long  as  we  are  no  longer  merely  the 
sponsors  of  the  Monroe  Doctrine  but  are  concerned  with  affairs 
everywhere,  we  must  either  content  ourselves  with  the  futility  of 
gesticulation  or  we  must  be  prepared  to  make  our  protests — if  we 
would  protect  and  insist  on  our  claimsv-mean  something. 

Why  does  France  have  a  large  army?  Because  she  has  found 
it  necessary  in  the  past.  But  for  her  army,  there  would  have  been 
no  Armistice  Day  to  celebrate.  But  for  her  standing  army,  France 
would  now  be  the  vassal  of  Germany,  and  on  terms  which  would 
make  the  reparations  exacted  from  Germany  seem  like  kisses  ex- 
changed among  children.  Germany  is,  for  the  present,  impotent 
but  France  cannot  forget  that  the  population  of  Germany  is  still 
much  larger  than  her  own,  that  the  physical  resources  of  Germany 
are  still  much  more  varied  than  her  own,  and  that,  within  the 
memory  of  many  of  her  citizens,  Germany  has  twice  invaded  her 
borders  at  a  moment's  warning.  It  is  true  that  her  own  army  is  eat- 
ing France  up.  It  is  true  that  bankruptcy  stares  her  in  the  face  if 
Germany  does  not  pay  the  bills  which  France  has  drawn  on  her — 
and  there  seems  at  present  no  way,  in  either  money  or  goods,  by 
which  these  bills  can  be  paid.  But  the  fear  of  what  has  happened 
is  too  vivid  to  forget,  the  bitterness  of  suffering  too  sharp  to  permit 
forgiveness.  Any  French  government  which  would  markedly  cut 
down  the  French  army  would  not  last  till  the  sunrise  of  the  next 
day. 

In  other  words,  each  nation  has  its  own  special  and  different 
interests  to  protect.  Each  nation  is  affected  not  by  any  special 
psychology  but  by  special  circumstances.  England  without  unin- 
terrupted imports  could  not  sustain  the  life  of  her  people  for  a  year; 
therefore  England  feels  she  must  be  able  to  keep  control  of  the  seas. 
Japan  has  seen  unprotected  India  and  unprotected  China  pass  into 


the  hands  of  exploiters  from  abroad,  Including  herself.  She  alone 
has  armed;  she  alone  has  maintained  her  national  Integrity  In  the 
far  East;  therefore  her  people  reason  she  must  remain  armed  by- 
land  and  sea.  It  Is  as  plain  as  the  nose  on  a  man's  face  that  no 
ratio  of  limitation  of  armament  can  be  adopted  which  suits,  or  seems 
to  suit,  these  widely  varying  special  circumstances  that  concern 
each  nation  individually;  and  it  is  equally  plain  that  by  no  form  of 
mathematical  calculation  can  that  ratio  be  found.  If  it  exists,  it  is 
a  psychological  thing  only — the  conviction  that  not  only  greed  and 
Injustice,  but  the  necessity  for  economic  competition  have  for  some 
reason  ceased,  or  are  ceasing  to  exist. 

This  leads  us  to  the  second  hope  which  sprung  up  in  so  many 
hearts  on  Armistice  Day  three  years  ago — the  possibility  of  endur- 
ing international  cooperation,  not  only  between  this  nation  and  that 
nation,  or  between  England  and  America,  or  France  and  America, 
or  Japan  and  America,  but  among  all  nations.  There  was  the  talk 
of  a  League  of  Nations  which  should  not  only  prevent  war  in  the 
future,  but  should  advance  world  interests  in  time  of  peace. 

That  League  of  Nations  was  never  formed.  A  League  came 
into  existence  and  Is  in  existence  now;  but  not  only  have  its  achieve- 
ments been  limited  to  matters  of  wholly  secondary  interests,  not  only 
has  there  been  more  war  in  Europe  subsequent  to  its  formation  than 
at  any  time  for  many  years  preceding  1914,  not  only  has  its  effect 
been  apparently  to  make  all  Central  Europe  into  a  hotbed  such  as 
the  Balkans  alone  used  to  be,  but  the  United  States  is  not  even  a 
party  to  its  councils.  By  the  largest  majority  ever  registered,  the 
people  voted  in  1920,  two  years  after  the  war  ended,  not  to  affiliate 
with  that  League.  Whether  the  vote  meant  that  we  did  not  wish 
affiliation  with  any  league,  no  one  can  say.  It  certainly  stated  most 
ringingly:     "No  affiliation  with  the  League  as  now  formed." 

What  has  been  our  course  so  far  as  international  cooperation 
in  general  is  concerned.^  In  1918,  when  the  war  ended,  we  were  on 
warmer  terms  with  the  three  now  greatest  nations  in  Europe,  Eng- 
land, France,  and  Italy,  than  ever  before.  Have  we  been  able  to 
maintain  that  warmth?  The  only  legislation  we  have  undertaken 
since  then  that  is  not  wholly  domestic  in  its  intention  is  what.^  We 
have  adopted  new  laws  regarding  Immigration;  we  have  changed 
our  tariff;  and  we  have  concluded  a  peace  with  Germany.  The  new 
immigration  laws  are  the  strictest  we  have  ever  had,  saying  to 
Europe,  in  effect:  "You  must  keep  more  of  your  people  at  home; 
we  will  not  have  them  here."  The  new  tariff  is  higher  than  it  has 
been  for  many  years.  It  says  to  Europe,  in  effect:  "You  must 
send  more  of  your  goods  elsewhere;  we  cannot  afford  to  admit  them 
here."  And  the  peace  with  Germany  Is  a  separate  peace.  It  does 
not  unite  with  our  allies  on  terms.  It  says:  "We  prefer  to  make 
our  own  terms;  those  you  make  do  not  suit  us." 

10 


This  is,  all  of  our  international  legislation  since  the  war  has  been, 
not  toward  greater  cooperation,  but  toward  greater  self  assertion. 
It  has  emphasized,  not  our  connection  with  other  nations,  but  our 
isolation  from  them.  It  has  been,  not  international  idealism,  but 
national  economic  individualism. 

Have  we  been  wrong  in  this?  Possibly.  I  am  not  at  the 
moment  discussing  ethics,  but  facts.  I  am  pointing  out  the  differ- 
ence between  the  dream  and  the  event.  We — that  is  to  say  Eng- 
land, France,  Italy,  and  the  United  States — seemed  like  a  single 
force  on  that  November  day  three  years  ago  because  the  dominat- 
ing desire  of  each  of  us  was  identical.  If  any  dominating  desire 
could  have  remained  identical,  we  should  seem  like  a  single  force 
today.  But  none  could  so  remain.  In  that  statement  lies  the  diffi- 
culty of  internationalism. 

We  did  not  quarrel  stupidly  over  any  "division  of  spoils."  There 
were  no  spoils  to  divide.  The  war  left  us  badly  off.  Its  enormous 
destruction  had  engulfed  Germany,  almost  engulfed  France  and 
Italy,  left  England  and  the  United  States  on  a  far  less  sound  eco- 
nomic footing  than  before.  Each  nation's  eagerness  was  for  re- 
habilitation. But  the  rehabilitation  of  each  had  to  be,  to  some  ex- 
tent, at  the  expense  of  every  other.  And  particularly,  the  rehabili- 
tation of  the  European  countries  had  to  be  at  the  expense  of  the 
United  States. 

We  united  in  the  war  because  we  all  wanted  the  same  thing — the 
defeat  of  Germany  who  threatened  the  world.  We  parted  after  the 
war  because  we  found  ourselves  on  different  economic  levels  and  no 
nation  which  was  higher  wished  to  sink.  Germany  owed  France,  and 
France  owed  England,  and  England  and  France  and  Italy  all  owed 
us.  If  France  had  forgiven  the  debt  of  Germany,  and  England  in 
time  had  forgiven  the  debt  of  France  and  we  had  forgiven  the  debts 
of  all  the  European  nations,  an  equalization  might  have  been  effected, 
we  are  told.  But  in  that  case  Germany  would  have  been  placed  on 
the  economic  level  of  France  and  France  would  not  endure  that  for  a 
moment.  When  economic  theories  come  into  conflict  with  a  passion 
that  is  born  of  fear  and  suffering,  economic  theories  do  not  stand  a 
chance.  France  wanted  her  rights,  and  insisted  on  them;  every  other 
nation  promptly  wanted  its  and  insisted  on  them  except  Germany  and 
Austria  who  had  neither  rights  nor  the  power  to  insist.  It  was  a 
grand  scramble.  Our  representatives  were  present  at  that  part  of  it 
which  was  called  the  Conference  of  Versailles  but  we  as  a  nation  took 
no  part  in  it;  we  merely  reserved  our  rights,  and  have  been  reserving 
them  ever  since. 

But  as  for  international  cooperation,  that  ceased,  as  I  have  said, 
the  instant  the  united  victory  prevailed,  and  the  divided  hope  of 
continued   economic   existence  took  its   place.     Internationalism,   it 


became  clear,  was  the  insubstantial  fabric  of  a  dream.  Indeed,  it  is 
almost  amusing  to  reflect  that  the  same  people  who  advocate  it  be- 
lieve firmly  in  anti-trust  legislation  and  often  denounce  "big  business" 
merely  because  it  is  big,  thereby  affirming  in  oiie  breath  that  among 
individuals  competition  is  life  and  among  nations  it  is  the  contrary. 

But  if  internationalism — in  the  sense  that  Mr.  H.  G.  Wells,  for 
instance,  understands  the  word — seems  much  further  off"  now  than 
it  did  in  1918,  is  the  idea  underlying  our  democracies  any  stronger? 
And  this  is  the  third  and  last  point  to  which  I  referred  a  while  ago 
as  one  of  the  lessons  of  the  war.  Even  in  this  case,  at  first,  it  seems 
as  if  we  are  on  doubtful  ground. 

Kings,  it  is  true,  have  become  largely  a  dead  issue.  William 
Hohenzollern,  a  broken  half-imbecile  old  man,  is  puttering  about  the 
grounds  of  a  Dutch  country  house;  the  former  Emperor  of  Austria 
is  on  his  way  to  unknown  exile;  he  who  was  a  Czar  of  all  the  Rus- 
sians lies  somewhere  in  an  unmarked,  hasty,  and  bloody  grave. 
There  is  hardly  a  sovereign  by  blood  of  any  real  political  importance 
in  the  world  any  more,  and  the  "divine  right"  is  as  impossible  to 
bring  again  into  existence  as  the  mastodon.  But  are  democracies 
any  safer  for  the  world  than  they  were  before  the  war.^ 

Russia  has  gone  farther  along  the  line  of  democratic 
theory  than  in  any  other  country.  The  rights  of  man  as 
man  are  more  emphasized  in  the  plan  of  the  Soviet 
government  than  in  any  other.  Believe  that  Lenin,  Trotzky,  and 
the  rest  are  mere  human  devils  greedy  for  power  or  believe  them  to 
be  sincere  intelligent  lovers  of  humanity,  it  is  all  one.  Their  system 
of  democracy  without  training  has  made  Russia  a  ghastly  caricature 
of  a  nation,  in  which  millions  starve  on  grass  and  roots,  and  the 
bodies  of  little  children  are  carried  daily  in  wagons  like  garbage  and 
dumped  by  hundreds  into  great  pits.  Russia  is  the  reductio  ad  ab- 
surdum  of  democratic  theory,  the  unspeakably  horrible  example  of  a 
country  which  has  escaped  from  tyranny  before  it  was  ready  for 
freedom.  And  what  of  the  western  democracies  of  Europe — Eng- 
land (monarchial  in  name  only),  France,  and  the  new  Germany? 
France  and  Germany  are  both  near  financial  ruin;  Germany  is  bank- 
rupt and  France  is  nearly  so.  It  can  be  a  matter  of  only  a  few 
months  now  when  Germany  will  announce  her  complete  inability  to 
pay  even  the  interest  on  her  debt  of  reparations.  France,  which  has 
been  clinging  to  the  slender  hope  of  these  payments  to  reduce  the 
fearful  burden  of  her  national  debts,  will  then  demand  the  Ruhr  Val- 
ley. If  she  takes  it,  she  will  be  financially  no  better  off;  to  hold  it  and 
develop  it  will  cost  her  all  she  could  get  from  it  in  taxes  and  trade- 
profits.  And  what  will  follow  on  her  discovery  that  she  is  no  better 
off,  no  man  can  prophesy,  except  that  it  will  be  perilous  to  her  na- 
tional existence. 

12 


Even  England,  next  after  ourselves  the  strongest  nation  in  the 
world,  sees  herself  in  a  position  which  terrifies  her  statecraft.  Read 
H.  G.  Wells,  the  most  influential  Englishman  out  of  office,  if  you 
would  be  made  gloomy  about  England's  future.  Her  debts  are  in- 
creasing instead  of  lessening;  her  trade  is  growing  less  instead  of 
greater;  the  unrest  of  her  workers  is  more  obvious  every  year  and 
the  belief  that  a  class  government  in  the  place  of  a  general  govern- 
ment can  be  set  up  is  steadily  growing. 

It  is  plain  that  in  spite  of  the  armistice  and  its  military  triumph, 
democracies  are  by  no  means  entirely  safe.  There  seems  nowhere 
in  Europe  any  confidence  in  any  political  leaders,  or  any  agreement 
on  a  poHtical  plan  of  salvation.  The  countries  are  split  up  into  al- 
most innumerable  parties,  which  shift  and  recombine  like  the  bits  of 
broken  glass  in  a  kaleidoscope. 

And  yet,  except  by  confidence  in  a  great  leader  and  by  unified 
and  disciplined  determination  to  carry  out  his  plans,  it  is  impossible 
for  us  to  progress.  In  war  every  man  comes  very  soon  to  realize  the 
truth  of  this  pact.  In  our  own  Civil  War  the  South  was  for  a  long 
time  successful  in  spite  of  the  most  tremendous  handicaps  because 
it  early  perceived  and  permitted  its  armies  to  be  controlled  by  the 
great  genius  of  Robert  E.  Lee;  and  it  was  not  until  the  North  finally 
also  perceived  and  established  a  similar  confidence  in  the  genius  of 
General  Grant  that  the  war  could  be  concluded. 

In  the  great  conflict  which  ended  three  years  ago,  the  same  truth 
was  manifested.  It  was  won  only  by  unified  effort  under  a  great 
leader.  He  was  among  us  only  a  few  days  ago — seventy  years  old 
now,  small,  gray,  looking  like  an  elder  in  a  country  church  in  New 
England.  But  he  had  a  genius  for  military  strategy,  a  genius  for 
directing  men  in  huge  masses,  a  genius  for  waiting  without  fear 
until  the  moment  arrived  when  he  could  strike  with  the  greatest 
possible  force.  And  because  he  not  only  possessed  this  genius,  but 
was  trusted  by  the  trained  and  skillful  leaders  under  him,  he  was 
able  to  conclude  that  long  agony  and  establish  himself  forever  in  the 
hearts  and  memories  of  all  of  us — Ferdinand  Foch,  Marshal  of 
France. 

Yes,  military  men  recognize  in  war  the  necessity  for  leaders 
and  for  intelligent  men  who  can  follow,  and  as  surely  as  there  is  a 
sun  in  heaven,  the  same  thing  is  true  in  time  of  peace.  By  getting 
rid  of  kings  we  have  not  gotten  rid  of  the  necessity  of  leaders;  just 
the  reverse.  Unless  our  democracy  can  develop  great  leaders  it  is 
certain  to  go  down.  In  a  kingdom,  in  an  empire,  there  is  a  tradition 
of  reverence  and  confidence  in  the  head  of  the  country  which  tends 
to  keep  men  in  hne.  In  a  democracy,  this  tradition  being  set  aside, 
only  the  absolute  reality  of  leadership  will  suffice. 

And  what  will  bring  us,  here  in  America,  this  leadership,  chang- 
ing but  enduring  from  generation  to  generation?     Education,  train- 

13 


ing,  discipline.  These  only.  Some  of  us  may  have  thought  that 
the  victory  proclaimed  by  the  armistice  was  a  short  cut  to  the  safety 
of  the  world.  I  have  been  trying  to  point  out  that  it  was  not.  There 
is  no  short  cut.  Political  evolution  and  development  do  not  come 
about  with  the  awe-inspiring  slowness  of  physical  evolution.  If  it 
is  true  that  a  real  primitive  man,  distinguishable  from  the  ape-form, 
existed  a  million  and  a  half  years  ago  and  that  actually  recorded 
history  extends  over  no  longer  a  period  than  four  or  five  thousand, 
the  physical  and  mental  development  of  man  must  have  gone  on 
with  an  imperfectibility  that  baffles  the  imagination.  Our  political 
evolution,  we  may  be  thankful,  is  not  so  halting  as  that.  But  it  is 
slow  and  there  are  no  short  cuts  to  it;  and  the  only  way  we  can 
progress  toward  it  at  all  is,  as  I  have  said,  by  education. 

I  do  not  think  this  education  is  necessarily  formal.  Even  in 
the  shadow  of  your  buildings  and  with  the  honor  of  speaking  here 
filling  my  whole  heart,  I  cannot  bring  myself  to  say  that  I  think 
only  among  young  men  and  young  women  with  college  educations 
may  we  expect  to  find  the  great  leaders  and  the  trained  and  disci- 
plined followers  on  whom  this  country  must  depend.  But  I  think 
most  of  them,  if  they  come  at  all,  will  come  from  such  training  as 
you  have  here.  And  if  you  do  not  recognize  your  responsibilities 
and  face  facts  and  seek  year  after  year  to  understand  and  interpret 
facts,  and  do  not  accept  humbly  the  duty  of  leading  if  you  have  the 
qualities  of  a  leader,  and  of  backing  up  your  chosen  leader  with 
every  ounce  of  power  and  loyalty  you  have,  if  that  is  to  be  your  lot 
in  life — I  think  if  you  do  not  do  these  things,  you  students  of  the 
University  of  Illinois,  the  guns  will  have  roared  and  the  blood  of 
your  brothers  will  have  been  spilled  in  France  in  vain  and  the 
moment  of  triumph  that  we  felt  there,  three  years  ago,  will  prove 
transitory  indeed. 

For  what  was  the  armistice.''  Only  the  physical  end  of  a  great 
conflict.  He  was  a  dreamer  indeed  who  could  have  expected  that  the 
mere  cessation  of  fighting  would  settle  the  problems  of  the  future. 
The  very  fighting  itself  had  set  up  new  problems  of  enormous  com- 
plexity that  in  their  importance  overshadow  the  old.  Between  good 
and  bad  no  armistice  is  possible;  the  fight  goes  on  and  on;  the  sound 
of  its  cannon  can  never  cease,  as  it  ceased  three  years  ago  in  France. 
We  must  develop  our  national  feeling.  We  must  get  rid  of  "blocs" — 
agricultural  blocs,  labor  blocs,  capitalistic  blocs, — and  think  of  our 
country  as  a  unit  and  ourselves  as  much  a  part  of  that  unit  as  if  we 
were  the  officers  and  the  privates  in  an  army.  We  must  train  our- 
selves in  this  national  service,  fight  in  it,  die  in  it  if  necessary;  quit 
ourselves  in  it  like  men,  as  your  brothers,  and  many  of  you,  too,  did 
in  the  actual  armies  of  those  desperate  months  in  1918.  They  had 
the  courage  for  that  service.  You  must  have  the  courage  and  en- 
durance for  this. 

14 


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